Brilliana’s eyes swam with adoration. “Oh, my gallant friend!” she cried, and held out her hands to him. He caught them both and kissed them, whereat she instantly withdrew them and moved a little away. He followed her, speaking low, passionately.
“Your words mean more than the King’s words to me. You know that.”
Brilliana did not look vastly displeased at this wild speech, but she forced a tiny frown and set her finger to her lips.
“Hush!” she said. “What of Randolph?”
“Less fortunate than I,” Rufus resumed, in calmer tones, “he ran into the arms of a burly Parliament man, that Cambridge Crophead Mr. Cromwell, who made him prisoner.”
“Truly,” said Brilliana, thoughtfully, “it is hard luck for him just after his first battle. But ’twill be soon mended. They will exchange him.”
Even as she spoke she seemed surprised at the gloomy look that reigned on Rufus’s face. His tone was as gloomy as his face as he said, “He was wearing the orange scarf of Essex.”
“What then?” Brilliana questioned, still surprised; then, as knowledge flashed upon her, she cried, quickly, “Ah, they will say that he was a spy.”
“Ay,” Rufus answered, hotly, “the King’s spy, God’s spy upon enemies of God and King, but still a spy in their eyes.”